What Might Have Been
by Megaparsec
Summary: Christine reflects on what is and what might have been, to be met with some striking knowledge and the chance to get some measure of what might have been.
1. Default Chapter

Christine stood at the expansive window, not noticing the grey bleakness of the day as her mind danced and whirled around memories recently past and still painful. She regretted not a moment, she loved Raoul, but still she wondered what life would have been like with him. Him. Erik. His passion, his brilliance, his innate sensuality that had drawn her to him like a moth to flame, before she realized it. She had thought him an angel, her Angel of Music, thinking that she could be drawn in like that so soon after her father's death only by a creature of Heaven. She sighed, and turned away. Oh, how wrong she had been.

His darkness had captivated her, offering her some measure of solace as she inwardly screamed and cried for her loss. Only after he'd visited had she slept soundly, unplagued by the nightmares that chased her through her unconscious mind. His music, as she had grown older and realized, was brilliant. A raging inferno of undeserved pain, a well of cool peace, the contentment of requited love, all of those he had written. All of those he had written for her. And what had she done for him? Saved him? Loved him? No.

She had broken him.

His soul had been in her hands that night. That night when Hell had walked the earth, choosing to appear in a dark grotto below a place of culture and art. That night when she had taken his soul, and shattered it, handing it back to him without apology. His crystallized hatred and pain had frightened her, so unlike her precious Angel, that she had chosen Raoul. She'd doubted her choice the moment she kissed him, feeling his tears on her cheeks and his desperation on her tongue. Still, she had stood on her choice. She had returned to the unblemished surface tarnished on her very soul. She'd tried, God above knew she had, to be a good and dutiful wife, a loving mother to the heirs she'd borne without protest.

Always, though, she had carried the memories and the secret realization she had come to during, as cliché as it sounded, her wedding. If she'd had to make the choice over again, she would have chosen Erik without protest. Nay, she'd have chosen Erik without contest. Her life had been sweet, loving, loyal, and unutterably boring since that night, which left her with a question.

Was it better to have passion and uncertainty than loyalty and boredom? Now, she could answer it. With her years of experience, she knew which answer she preferred. She knew, far too late.

**A.N.**

Okay, this can be a one-shot dramatic angsty piece, or I can write it. If you choose the latter, I already have the ending chosen, so you might actually be able to count on a story…

It's up to you guys. If you do decide on a longer story, or I decide on a longer story, then consider this the prologue.


	2. A Day of Leisure

Soaring through the large house came a voice, rustic and untrained, but beautiful nonetheless. Though it called her name, this time Christine felt no fear. Why? Because this time, it was her daughter calling her down to supper. She'd never regretted a day with Raoul, but the best part of her marriage had been her children; not her husband. Her youngest daughter, Claire, lived with her at the moment. Her fiancé was off on a long business trip, and Claire had not wanted to remain alone for the two months he would be away. Now, as Christine made her way into their non-formal dining room, she let her thoughts reflect upon her children and late husband.

Other than her youngest, Christine had three children, though they were really more adults now. The eldest and the current Count of Chagny was her son Mathieu. Born a year into their marriage, he was now twenty-four and had just married the lovely daughter of a nearby baron. Her next child had been a daughter, the irrepressible and optimistic Orianne. She too was married, and was expecting her first child in a few months. Her youngest son, Edmond, had forsaken the life of a noble and was happily traveling the world. At last word, he had been in India. And then there was Claire. Though she had tried to prevent it, Claire had always been slightly more coddled than her siblings. This made her slightly spoiled, though still a sweet girl. In fact, she reminded her mother of her past self, her Opera self, though she would never have dared to voice that thought to Raoul, or Claire either.

And Raoul. Oh, what a kind and devoted husband he had been. Always in love with her, always faithful; he had been the husband that every young woman dreamed about. He had passed nearly a year ago, of a late winter illness. His last words had been for her, a tender declaration of love before he had succumbed to unconsciousness. Though she sometimes missed him, she felt slight shame at how much more of her thoughts seemed to revolve around a different man. Raoul had never sensed how she felt about her choices that night, and she was glad that he had never been perceptive enough to notice.

These musings, as well as her feet, had so far taken her down two hallways, a staircase, and a grand entry-way. All that remained was a door before she reached her intended destination. Yet just as she reached for the knob, Claire impatiently flung it open and was about call her mother for a second time, with an obvious increase in annoyance when she noticed her mother standing before her. Her irritated expression was quickly changed to a smile, and Christine thought fleetingly that perhaps the house was too big if it forced people to yell at other people for meals.

Their idle small talk coasted them safely through their soup, salad, entree of wine-baked chicken garnished with artichoke hearts, and deposited them at the dessert flan feeling none the worse for wear. When they were roughly halfway through, Claire put down her spoon and spoke for the first time that evening of personal matters.

"When do you think Jacque will be home?" She inquired, toying with the edge of her napkin. "Will it take the full two months, or do you think that the Spanish will give way quickly?" Her fiancé, Jacque, was noble, but worked in banking to occupy his time. He was currently off in Spain trying to sort out a problem with lending money to French citizens traveling or passing through Spain.

Delicately eating her dessert, Christine spoke carefully, trying not to upset her daughter more than necessary. "Darling, perhaps it will take a little longer. You know how men are about money; they really don't like having to disperse it to those they don't know." Seeing her daughter's expression, she amended "But it's very possible that I'm wrong, dearest." Her daughter's expression of mild anger and upset gone, and her dessert finished, Christine excused herself.

She had a long soak, basking in the heat of the water and the pleasant scent of the flowers scattered throughout her bathing chamber. Flowers she loved more than almost anything else in the world, and though it was winter, she'd had a greenhouse built shortly after her marriage that supplied her with fresh flowers daily even when they didn't grow outdoors. It was funny, how much she'd used to favor roses, and how only Erik had known about it. Raoul had known about her devotion to flowers too, though never seeing preference for roses and only seeing them as Erik's mark upon her. After her marriage, she hadn't permitted the gardeners to grow roses, out of courtesy to Raoul, but maybe she would let them plant a few bushes this year.

Eventually, her bathwater cooled, and she climbed out of the tub and into a towel still warm from its proximity to the fire. She could have had a maid to help her with such things, but Christine preferred the privacy and quiet solitude that came with bathing unaided. She dried herself quickly, beginning to feel the chill in the air and pulled on her nightgown. Only then did she summon a maid, to brush her hair and ready a bed warmer. After the maid had gone, she climbed into bed and tried to go to sleep.

Sleep, however, was determined to elude her, so she lit a lamp and read for a while from one of the novels that her bookseller delivered to her monthly. It was, to be frank, quite a boring novel and Christine soon drifted off to be met with dreams of beautiful music.

Her last thought before those dreams was trivial, that it was long past due for her to visit the cemetery.

My apologies for how long it took to get this out. I think I have a pretty well-defined "plot road" to guide me now, and I thank everyone who reviewed and made my day beautiful.


End file.
